


First Time

by Notasmuch



Series: Distractions!Verse [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notasmuch/pseuds/Notasmuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Bob and Patrick met, as remembered by Bob :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time

**Author's Note:**

> Patrick is 16 and there's some making out with a 20 year old Bob.

Bob still remembers the times when he could just get out of bed, pull on his boxers, pick up whatever pair of sticks was close and start banging until his back ached and then through it. He wouldn't play to music, not someone else's beat. He made his own.

That's not how it works any more. The surgery went well, but the therapy is a work in progress. It's not just a matter of practicing the things he already knows, it's about learning a new method of playing, one that doesn't tax his fingers so much but still lets him kick some drum ass. It's hard and it's a process and Bob hates it.

This is how it goes now: he sits down and wraps bandages around the butt of his sticks for five minutes, methodically, so the cloth doesn't slip when he starts playing - sometimes he wraps some around his wrist too, just in case. It gives the sticks a whole other balance, so when he finally does start playing, it's not just a new method but new tools as well.  
It can make him feel like he's never played drums before.

He's getting a new set of calluses and losing some of the old ones. The feeling of gauze in his palm is grating, in more ways than one, but at least the sticks aren't getting stuck in the upwards position on rebound any more.

On top of it all, every now and then, when he's tired, his scar starts itching but it doesn't help to scratch it because it's itching on the inside. It makes him nervous, almost frustrated.

But he does it all. He prepares and is careful and ignores the scar and then he sits and starts drumming, focusing on one thing, one feeling.

It's hard to let go, to get lost in the sound and the idea, when all he can think about is _wrist up and fingers relaxed, let it rebound and no, no, don't push it_ , so he thinks about things he already knows, old memories, good and bad, people he loved or hated or lost.

Tonight, he's remembering the first time Patrick kissed him. The real first time, not the drunken ramblings of nosy roadies.

Sometimes Bob wishes they had a better "first time" story. Something sweeter than _I was stupid and he was jailbait_ and _we wouldn't see each other for years at a time but when we did we fucked like bunnies._  
He wishes he didn't have Luke of all people to thank for it. That would be really awesome.

Though, maybe it was just dirty enough to be rock 'n' roll.

Except for how Bob felt noble and said no to the jailbait, so really, not rock 'n' roll at all.

\--

Luke was Bob's best friend from way back when. Way back when they were nine years old, that is. He was the one who could get Bob to do stupid shit and the one who took the fall when Bob really needed it. They had seen each other in various states of fucked up, drunk, stupid and bloodied. He was also a dick, Bob knew and admitted that. For instance, in the 11 years they knew each other, he refused to accept the fact that Bob sometimes just didn't like people. Which was how every Friday night found them in a random bar, hall or shithole of choice.

That night Luke was on a mission. Bob knew it, because he knew Luke's mission face. And Luke's mission was always the same: "You need to get laid."

It was the day after AJ sat Bob down told him that being in a band was fun and all, but reality was about having a job, not fucking around. So Bob was stuck listening to another crappy band play their asses off on stage and actually work on making it while he tapped his fingers against a fucking Red Bull can.

 _Luckily_ he had Luke on constant play in his ear, switching between _hey, how about her_ and _man, there was this one girl, a few months back, you should have been there..._

The crowd was just loud enough to drown out his thoughts and half of Luke's words, and the couple making out against the wall near him was the softcore porn to the singers cracking voice. It was too much noise but somehow it made him feel good despite the struggle he put up before he agreed to go out.

While he was ignoring another "you should have been there" story Luke was telling as a subtle reminder for Bob never to leave him for Florida again, his eyes kept darting from the couple to the band and back and it was in one of those switches that he noticed a kid in the shadow.

He was dressed ridiculously, which in this place meant like a regular person. A Muddy Waters t-shirt and baggy pants. His hair was just long enough to not be spiky any more and it didn't even seem to be some kind of ironic statement.  
He looked out of place but completely unaware and no one bothered him as he stood glued to the wall, staring intently at the band.

Bob tried to get his momentum back, tried to look at the couple, since the guy finally got his hand under the girl's shirt, and then at the band, where the drummer seemed to be keeping the beat for some other song. But his eyes kept slipping back to the kid, calm in his little dark spot.

He was still trying not to stare the next time the drummer messed up the rhythm, and he got to see the kid shake his head and rub the back of his head just before he turned a bit and looked straight at Bob.

And okay fuck, they didn't have guys like that when Bob was in high school. He knew, because if they had, he wouldn't have quit.

"Booob."

 _Shit. Luke._ "What?"

"He's a bit young, isn't he?"

Luke was one of the few people who knew Bob could go either way. Mostly because he _never_ left Bob alone, so he often saw shit he shouldn't have.

"Yeah. He is." Bob decided to go take a piss and regroup. He didn't even know they allowed _kids_ in that place.

Someone must have slipped something in his drink, no other explanation, because when he came out of the toilet Luke was leaning on the wall, his arm wrapped around the Muddy Waters kid's shoulder, like he was completely unaware he was twice the kid's size. Then again, Luke was an explanation and a reason all of its own. Bob sighed.

"This is Patrick. He goes to Glenbrook High and is sixteen years old," he said with a shit eating grin and an announcers voice. "Patrick, this is Bob."

"That's great." Bob felt sorry for the kid, Patrick, when he blushed and tried to push Luke's arm away but failed.

Patrick looked up at Bob, or, really, at Bob's shoulder, because he refused to make eye contact, and grit his teeth. "Yeah, awesome. Maybe you could let me go now."

"Luke, you're freaking the kid out."

"I'm not!"

"He's not freaking me out!"

Bob shook his head and walked pass them, hoping beyond all hope Luke would just let it drop. "Bob does sound for the House of Blues."

He didn't turn to see Patrick's reaction, but he didn't have to. "Hey, see, he likes that! Bob! Bob, come back, he likes it!"

Okay, that was just too creepy. He stopped and removed Luke's arm from Patrick's shoulder, then stared at him until he backed away. "Fine, Fine. He's all yours now."

Bob wanted to punch him in the face. "Sorry. He's a dick," he told Patrick.

"Yeah."

"Well, you're free now. So." Bob waved a hand and turned away to leave when Patrick touched his elbow.

"Hey, wait. Um."

Bob waited.

"You wanna go, maybe, somewhere to talk?" Patrick cringed the second he said it and by the way he was staring at the floor Bob though he wished it would open up.

"To talk?"

Patrick shrugged and Bob looked at him. Really looked at him. Over the red hair and the beautiful eyes and the sinful lips to the stubbornness and innocence and the hidden excitement. Yeah, the kid looked good, and there was something about him that made Bob want to get to know him. _It's probably the shirt_ , Bob thought self-mockingly. He was just curious, but he had faith in his self control.

He checked how much Red Bull he had left and nodded. "Okay. You want something to drink?"

"No, I'm good."

"I want another."

On his way back from the bar Bob stopped by Luke and took his car keys. "I'm taking him home. I might come back for you. Or not."

Luke just gave him thumbs up.

"C'mon, I'll drive you home. We can talk on the way," Bob told Patrick a minute later. _Talk. What the fuck._

"Cool."

And Bob had to roll his eyes because seriously. Stranger danger much?

Patrick must have noticed because he was quick to add, "Oh, I know who you are."

Bob looked at him sideways.

"I have a friend who was in a band. You did sound for them once. They said you were awesome."

He wondered what that meant to Patrick, what made him think Bob doing good sound said anything about him as a person. But he just nodded instead, like he understood.

The car was a piece of crap but Luke let him pick the music which meant there were Bouncing Souls waiting for him when he started driving and that almost got him to relax.

"So," _what's a nice guy like you doing in a place like that_ "what were you doing there?"

"Checking out the band. I wanna audition, their drummer left, that's why they sounded like shit tonight, but I wanted to hear them first."

"And?"

"I don't know. They were sucking even when the drummer wasn't fucking up."

"Yeah. You play drums?"

"I do."

Bob recognized the pride in his voice. He hoped some day he'd have it too.

"What about you? Why sound and not an instrument?"

Bob shrugged. "I can't find a band and sound makes money."

"What do you play?"

"Drums."

"Yeah? Who's your favorite drummer?" There was challenge in that question, like Patrick wouldn't believe he played unless he gave a good answer. So Bob did.

And wow, Patrick had opinions on Dave Weckl.

At some point, a few streets away from Patrick's house, Bob stopped the car because it was obvious they weren't gonna stop talking any time soon. It was summer so they cracked the windows open and shared Bob's Red Bull.

Thing was, Bob knew how to handle pretty. For some reason his world was full of tiny, pretty boys and guys and men who knew how to balance cute with obnoxious and could talk about the local punk scene like they were related to everyone.

But Patrick came from the same jazz background that Bob had, and just like Bob, he never _really_ left it behind. And he _knew_ _music_. Not just names and bands but the rhythm and beat and reasons behind choices. Bob was maybe a little bit in love by the time Red Bull turned piss warm.

"It's like, like if you hate tomatoes. And you wanna make a sandwich and all the commercials will have like, meat, salad and then tomato, because all they care about is color. But you hate tomatoes, y'know? So the perfect sandwich just isn't _your_ perfect sandwich and when you make a sandwich it's not gonna be technically as perfect, but it's gonna be delicious. Sometimes you just have to throw the tomatoes out the window and go with what you love."

Bob agreed, because Patrick's metaphors were long and weird but made sense in a world where music was sandwich and Roger Taylor was the man making the sandwich.

They were just agreeing to disagree on the future of jazz fusion in general when they finished the Red Bull. Patrick let it fall behind the seat and the soft thud was like a dot to their conversation and a start of an awkward silence.

That was the moment Bob should have turned the car on instead of sitting there, watching Patrick chew on his lip and wishing he was doing it to him instead.

Then Patrick said, "Please don't hit me," and leaned over.

It was far from the best kiss Bob's ever had. Patrick mostly pushed their lips together and then waited to see what Bob would do before he went straight for tongue in mouth. Bob almost choked trying to stifle his laughter and Patrick moved back a bit, frowning at him.

"No, no." Bob wrapped his hand around the back of Patrick's neck and pulled him back in. It was better this time, even though Patrick tried to bite him.

His lips were wide and warm and the skin and hair under Bob's fingers were soft. Bob licked his bottom lip gently and felt him exhale. He brushed his fingers through the messy hair and caressed Patrick's ear with his thumb until Patrick tilted his head and opened for him, slowly this time.

He let himself fall into the kiss for a while, just feeling everything and drinking it in until he had enough. Warmth spread from their kiss through his body and his cock twitched every time Patrick moaned into his mouth.

Patrick's hands on his chest and his shoulder tugging on his shirt to find a way under, snapped him out of it.

Bob shifted a bit in his seat and pulled Patrick closer, until one of his legs was across Bob's thighs.

Then Patrick's hands slid lower and finally under the shirt and Bob felt him sigh. He pulled back a bit and drew a harsh breath.

"Fuck, Patrick," and the kid just made another sound and tried to climb on top of him.

The hand that wasn't holding Patrick close clenched into his shirt and Bob knew it was time, before he changed his mind and got him naked like he wanted to. His fingers touched Patrick's cheek and then he moved him away gently, shaking his head.

He wanted to say "you're the hottest guy I ever saw in my life and if you weren't illegal I'd be getting inside you right now."  
He wanted to say "you're better than random hookups and guys going nowhere." But he never learned how to preach.

Instead, he said "You're young, and I don't know where I'll be in a week. Trust me, it's not worth it."

Patrick sort of flinched and leaned back on the car door.

Bob was rarely intentionally cruel so he tried to make it sound better. "Not _you_. You're probably worth the prison time," he smiled and saw Patrick smile back, looking embarrassed. "But this random thing? Not so much. You know you can do better than this." He waved a hand to point out the car and the street and maybe himself.

Patrick looked skeptical but he nodded and Bob turned the car on.

"So why'd you kiss me?"

"I wanted to."

Patrick's smile was real this time and when the car stopped in front of his house he just squeezed Bob's leg and said, "It was nice talking to you," before he went out.

While he watched Patrick walk away, Bob never once thought that he might never see him again.

\--

Bob lets himself feel the pain in his shoulders and slows the beats down until his hands feel like they're burning. He's wiping his face with a towel when he notices Patrick on the floor across from him, sitting with his back against the wall. He's calm and pensive and Bob taps a cymbal to get his attention. Patrick smiles at him but doesn't move otherwise.

"That was good."

"Still feels too slow."

"It's not all about speed."

It sounds like he's trying to cover more than one aspect of their lives with that sentence and Bob loves how completely unsubtle Patrick is and always has been.

"What were you thinking about?" Patrick asks.

"Us."

He cracks up and Bob has to smile when he hears it echo through the room. "Is that why you looked so angry?"

"Not angry, frustrated. You were such a hot piece of illegal ass."

"Sweet talker," Patrick rolls his eyes and gets up, walks up to him. "It really was a good beat though. You should do something with it."

" _You_ should do something with it."

"Maybe I will."

Bob finally unclenches his fists and puts the sticks down when Patrick stands next to him and starts unwrapping his wrist. "I wouldn't mind."


End file.
